Blood Bound by Patricia Briggs Page B

ignored us again as she passed. It was deliberate rudeness, I decided, though I preferred it to Marsilia’s hungry gaze. I had to resist the urge to take a step forward and block her view of Warren.
    If my errand hadn’t been for Stefan, I’d have gone out and dragged in a few chairs for us, or maybe just sat on the floor; but I didn’t want to antagonize anyone before Stefan was safe. So I just stood where I was and waited for him to arrive.
    The minutes crawled by. I’m not very good at waiting, and had to fight not to fidget. I’d have thought that Ben would be worse than I, but neither he nor Warren seemed to have any problem staying still while we waited, not even under Marsilia’s steady regard.
    The wolves weren’t as motionless as the vampires, though. None of the vampires bothered with the small touches that Stefan affected to make humans more at ease, like blinking or breathing.
    One by one, as if Andre’s leaving was some sort of signal, the vampires turned their gaze on me, their expressions blank. The only exceptions were Marsilia, and the vampire on her right, who appeared to be a boy of about fifteen—so I looked at them.
    Marsilia watched Warren, occasionally flexing her long, highly decorated fingernails. The boy just stared off into space, swaying just a little. I wondered if he, like the musical Lilly, was damaged mentally. Then I realized he was swaying in time to the beat of my heart and took a quick step closer to Warren. The boy rocked a little faster.
    By the time I heard movement in the hall behind us, he was swaying pretty quickly. Nothing like being prey in a room full of vampires to keep the heart racing merrily along.
    I heard Stefan and his entourage coming well before they got to the room.
    Estelle brushed past us first, and resumed her seat. Andre took up a position on a couch near the odd, wooden chair. I didn’t have to turn my head to know that Stefan had stopped a few feet behind me—I could smell him. I turned anyway.
    He still wore the clothes he’d been in when I last saw him, but he appeared unharmed. He was carrying a young man in his arms who could be no one but his young friend, Daniel, Littleton’s first victim.
    Jeans and a “Got Milk?” T-shirt seemed incongruous on someone who looked as though he’d just been liberated from a Nazi death camp. His head had been shaved, and dark stubble turned the pale skin of his scalp blue. It made me wonder if vampires could grow hair.
    Daniel’s cheeks were so sunken I could almost see his teeth through them. His eyes looked blind, with irises that were startlingly white, and no pupils at all. It was difficult to judge the age at which he’d died accurately, but he couldn’t have been older than twenty.
    The man in the striped waistcoat, Bernard, stood up—and finally Marsilia quit staring at Warren, and turned her attention to the matters at hand.
    Bernard cleared his throat then, in an appropriately businesslike tone, said, “We are here because early this morning Stefan called us to clean up his mess at a motel in Pasco. Five humans are dead, and there was considerable property damage. We were forced to call in Elizaveta Arkadyevna”—I hadn’t known Elizaveta worked for the seethe as well as Adam’s pack, but I suppose it made sense. The old Russian witch was the most powerful practitioner in the Pacific Northwest—“because we could see no scenario in which the police would not be called in. The local authorities have accepted the story we manufactured and, according to our contacts, there will be no further inquiry into the case. Other than the monetary cost of employing the witch, no permanent harm has been done to the seethe.” He bit off the last part a little too sharply, as if he wanted to disagree with his statement.
    â€œStefan,” Marsilia said. “You put the seethe in danger. How do you answer